We will remember them

Girl-Afraid

Least Likely To


In Flanders Fields


by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
 
A

Anonymous

Guest
Re: We will remember them.

In the night, the men charged.
They surged forth with vigour
and pressed upon enemies;
shapeless, shouting figures.

And in the commotion
there came shouts and screams
as men fought for valour
and their families’ dreams.

And when the dawn came,
how many lay still
in the fresh light of dawn
in the first light’s cool chill?

Too many, by far,
and each a brave soul
wreathed red in duty
as they lay on the knoll

And today we remember;
We honour that fight;
We think to the brave men
Who gave their lives on that night.

We will never forget.
 

kissmyshadestoo

Cheeky Defendant
Re: We will remember them.

Thanks for posting this GirlAfraid......very nice poem and same for the one added by anonymous.
 

Oh my god. it's Robby!

spontaneously luminescent
Re: We will remember them.

its already November 11th day, though not a special day here in China :straightface:
but I have been reading some of the "war poets" today, particularly Siegfried Sassoon
here is one of his:

The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still
And I remember things I'd best forget.
For now we've marched to a green, trenchless land
Twelve miles from battering guns: along the grass
Brown lines of tents are hives for snoring men;
Wide, radiant water sways the floating sky
Below dark, shivering trees. And living-clean
Comes back with thoughts of home and hours of sleep.
To-night I smell the battle; miles away
Gun-thunder leaps and thuds along the ridge;
The spouting shells dig pits in fields of death,
And wounded men, are moaning in the woods.
If any friend be there whom I have loved,
God speed him safe to England with a gash.
It's sundown in the camp; some youngster laughs,
Lifting his mug and drinking health to all
Who come unscathed from that unpitying waste:
(Terror and ruin lurk behind his gaze.)
Another sits with tranquil, musing face,
Puffing bis pipe and dreaming of the girl
Whose last scrawled letter lies upon his knee.
The sunlight falls, low-ruddy from the west,
Upon their heads. Last week they might have died
And now they stretch their limbs in tired content.
One says 'The bloody Bosche has got the knock;
'And soon they'll crumple up and chuck their games.
'We've got the beggars on the run at last!'
Then I remembered someone that I'd seen
Dead in a squalid, miserable ditch,
Heedless of toiling feet that trod him down.
He was a Prussian with a decent face,
Young, fresh, and pleasant, so 1 dare to say.
No doubt he loathed the war and longed for peace,
And cursed our souls because we'd killed bis friends.
One night he yawned along a haIf-dug trench
Midnight; and then the British guns began
With heavy shrapnel bursting low, and 'hows'
Whistling to cut the wire with blinding din.
He didn't move; the digging still went on;
Men stooped and shovelled; someone gave a grunt,
And moaned and died with agony in the sludge.
Then the long hiss of shells lifted and stopped.
He stared into the gloom; a rocket curved,
And rifles rattled angrily on the left
Down by the wood, and there was noise of bombs.
Then the damned English loomed in scrambling haste
Out of the dark and struggled through the wire,
And there were shouts and eurses; someone screamed
And men began to blunder down the trench
Without their rifles. It was time to go:
He grabbed his coat; stood up, gulping some bread;
Then clutched his head and fell.
I found him there
In the gray morning when the place was held.
His face was in the mud; one arm flung out
As when he crumpled up; his sturdy legs
Were bent beneath bis trunk; heels to the skye.


and he's right, the stench of the dead never leaves you
I can only imagine it was even worse in his war than mine
but yeah, believe it or not, poetry like this helps on days like today
 
D

DAVIE

Guest
Re: We will remember them.

The whole of ASDA stood in silence...It's was so weird.
 
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